A Stranded Winchester Calls For Help
by Tu Es Chicago
Summary: Destiel. A hot summer night in the desert with the Impala broken down and Sam off trying to get some cell phone service, it'll take Divine Intervention for Dean to relax his nerves. Oneshot fluff with zest.


**A/N: This is actually a rather old fic, but one I didn't have word on my computer to post for. But sit back and relax. No plot, no angst, just fluffy Destiel smut.**

The stars were bright enough above the desert Arizona sky that the small light from the gas station was but a pale, silly mockery of luminescence.  
Car broken down, Sam off getting help, Dean Winchester distressedly lifted the hood of his beloved impala.  
He discarded the jacket he'd driven in, feeling the precursor to perspiration at his forehead and beneath his arms. Left on his person were no more than the black denim pants, and the tight, grey shirt, of short sleeve, and very thin fabric. Not much better, but bearable now.  
The hood of the impala revealed steam, and lots of the stuff. It was undoubtable, his love had overheated.  
"I'm sorry, Baby," he spoke softly, like to a lover he'd let down. "I didn't mean to work you that hard." He swung back, rummaging through weapons, religious articles and provisions which littered his car's trunk to eventually find a few reparative tools.  
Unfortunately, it was no good. Even after half an hour's desperate picking, tooling, adjusting attempts, Dean had no way at all to fix it without a professional more equipped than he.  
But of course, without service, he had nothing to do but wait beneath the stars, in the driver's seat of his ailing automobile.  
He had little to even ponder, other than that Sam could manage to walk somewhere with phone service, and that he'd be able to get back without getting lost and having no contact to his stationary brother whatsoever.  
Dean would worry for Sam or himself being on his own, but to be frank, no monsters would wander the Arizona desert. They'd have no kiddies to terrify, no succulent flesh to feast on. In the event one did? Sam had taken the Colt, two knives, some salt, Holy Water and regular water. Hell, that could last a Winchester a good two days for decent life, until he got hungry. And the man had even thought to filch a couple slim jim's and corn chips from the store behind Dean. With those provisions, Sammy could walk to Tulsa looking for service and be just fine.  
So the elder brother sat in the leather seat, brooding over the boredom of isolation, lack of music and poor shape of his car.  
"Where the hell's Cas?" He mused comically, with a small chuckle. "Bastard probably fix it with his mind mojo." Or something of the like, an unimportant detail. And it was only wishful and somewhat sarcastic speculation. Dean could, in reality, imagine little use for Castiel in the desert with no current job other than 'get to a zoo in Utah where penguins have been going crazy and killing Mormons.'  
The man had closed his eyes, nearly dozing off, feeling the pleasant blanket of sleep dull his senses for some amount of time, the exact count he did not know.  
"Hello, Dean."  
"Son of a bitch!" He hissed, head slamming forward, hitting the steering wheel and consequently the horn, which pierced the stillness of the barren land before him, jarring Dean into awareness and irritation. "Cas, what the hell?" He looked at him in sleepy unhappiness, something of a pout or bemoanment contorting his facial features.  
"You asked for me. I can't fix machinery, Dean. But if you needed assistance, I am still willing."  
"..." He shook his head in disbelief. "Lemme get this straight, Cas. You wake me up to tell me you can't do anything?" Dean was fond of the angel. Extremely so... but at this moment, he wanted to stick a gun barrel up that son of a bitch's ass, fully and honestly.  
"Not of your request, correct."  
"Then why the hell are you here?"  
"You seemed distressed. So I came." Jesus. Guardian angels were helpful, or at least.. supposed to be. As were relationships, right? Or at least, Dean assumed so. Then again, Cas seemed to break a lot of rules and regulations these days.  
He grunted, still a bit disgruntled, however there was no going back to sleep now. "You really wanna make yourself useful?" He raised an eyebrow, devil-may-care smirk on his face.  
Still half-innocent, his lover, best friend and guardian looked up. "Yes." Was his reply. Castiel's face was unreadable. There was something to be read, Dean assumed, but whatever it was, he had no ability to discern it whatsoever. Cas's face was a mystery, eyes carrying the light they always had, but ever in a different shade.  
Dean's smirk changed to a grin, just as wicked, just as playful, but a distinctly more cocky look to him on the whole, more confident, irritation all but gone away. "Kill time with me."  
"What do you m-Mmm," Dean cut him off before the Angel had asked his question. Mouths pressed together, Dean felt the warmth, and pliable nature of Castiel's mouth against his, moving slowly in response, warming up to the notion Dean had conveyed nonverbally.  
Mouths entwined, breaths hitched, kisses trailed down Castiel's neck, soon shoving off Jimmy Novak's favorite Trench coat, unbuttoning the small white shirt buttons.  
Castiel was no sluggish response, of course, learned in the art from his much more experienced lover, the thin grey shirt was a thing of the past, another layer of litter on the floor of the Impala.  
Cas's mouth kissed the sensitive skin of Dean's neck, making a chill go down his back in the night heat, he leaned into it with a soft sound of approval. Cas's lips trailed lower, lower, teasing the sensitive nipples with his tongue and lips, kissing down Dean's fair skin that did nothing to conceal finely-turned, taut muscles.  
A fair hand stroked the growing tightness through Dean's pants, he leaned his hips upward into it encouragingly. As Cas's face moved closer, he unbuttoned the troublesome, constricting denim, lowering the zipper with absolutely no protests from Dean.  
He felt his length removed from their its thin secondary encasing, and then the light brush of lips, sending a cascade of excitement through his body.  
Gently, the angel's tongue licked down his length, and he bucked upward, his organ craving more attention, deeper pleasures, not the feather light teasing that had now brought it to swollen throbbing.  
Soft lips and a wet mouth closed around him, sucking slightly, moving themselves up and down, pleasure dictating him, moving him. It was the air in his lung that drew in a sharp intake. It was the force that moved his hand to tightly grasp Castiel's dark hair, and all of it, the many waves began at the throbbing source of building tension as Cas's teeth lightly drug across the sensitive organ whilst below he was lightly massaged by the angel.  
He thrust his hips upward, an involuntary reaction, further thrusting himself into Castiel's welcoming mouth, a source of warmth and the narcotic pleasure that had both heightened and dulled his every sense now.  
It built and built, the dark-haired form of Castiel's head bobbing up and down, finding rhythm and increasing the delicious tension, Dean's own heartbeat and the insatiable urge to release it all, to ride one final, perfect wave that would rack his entire body.  
Cas's tongue swirled about the tip, tasting the moisture already escaping, then doing down once again for more, in quick and insanely intense swipes until Dean's every muscle had gone so tense they ached, begging his release.  
The wave came when it became too much to bear, riding it out with his ears ringing, head spinning and body going temporarily limp as Cas seemed to consume all evidence of the fantastically intense, hot pleasure that had set him on fire almost literally.  
It was as Dean had begun the process of doing much the same to his fantastic bastard of an angel when a light pierced his peaceful, sensual nighttime darkness, glaring even worse through the window of the car, blinding him.  
"Dean?" The voice was not of Castiel, but outside, that of Sam. "The Mechanic'll be here-DEAN?"


End file.
